


like we're stuck in second gear

by lotts (LottieAnna)



Series: like we're stuck in second gear [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Feelings Realization (Platonic), Friends With Benefits, Friendship, M/M, Mutual Support, Pining, Podfic Available, Snark, character study if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 03:37:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14824536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LottieAnna/pseuds/lotts
Summary: “A cry for help disguised as a booty call,” Mat says. “You know, I kind of hate how alike we are sometimes.”“Are you only just now starting to figure that out?”





	like we're stuck in second gear

**Author's Note:**

> IF YOU FOUND THIS THROUGH GOOGLING, KNOW ANYONE MENTIONED IN THIS STORY PERSONALLY, OR ARE MENTIONED YOURSELF: please, please click away. This is a work of fiction and nothing written in this story is true. Any accurate information used in this story is publicly available information about public figures, the rest is made up, 100%.
> 
> thanks to ellie, ria, and logan for their INCREDIBLY helpful feedback!

 

**I**

“Oh my god,” Mat says. “You really never shut up.”

“Listen,” Dylan says, then he slides his mouth down the length of Mat’s dick, and Mat is only able to stop his hips from bucking up at that through sheer force of will and a stalwart refusal to lose any semblance of control in front of Dylan Strome. “I have a gift for talking through literally anything.”

“Do you really want to talk through this?” Mat says, and, okay, he’s a little breathless, but not enough that Dylan would notice.

“Eh,” Dylan says, and then he looks down at Mat’s cock, like he’s examining it. Which is stupid, because they are both aware that Mat’s very hard, but Dylan’s a fucking weirdo, even mid-blowjob. Mat honestly doesn’t care as long as his dick gets sucked. “I kinda get the vibe that you’re into it.”

“What on earth could possibly—” Mat says, openly irritated, but then Dylan’s mouth is on his dick again.

Right. That.

“Okay,” Mat pants. “Fair enough, but that’s not really about the talking.”

“You like the reminder that you hate me, though,” Dylan says. “Keeps you grounded.”

“I don’t _hate_ you,” Mat says.

“You literally tell me you hate me,” Dylan says. “Like, often.”

“Well, I only hate you a little bit,” Mat says. “It’s a buddies thing.”

“Hating me is a buddies thing,” Dylan echoes.

“I don’t know, can you just go back to sucking my dick?”

“Hm,” Dylan says, pretending to consider it, and Mat is about to backtrack and inform Dylan that he actually does hate him, but then Dylan’s mouth is on his dick again.

“Yeah, I don’t hate you,” Mat gasps out, and he can feel Dylan laughing on his dick, which—like, haha, whatever, Mat isn’t gonna whisper sweet nothings in Dylan Strome’s ear anytime soon—but at the same time, the sensation kind of does the trick, so Mat refrains from rolling his eyes as he comes.

Dylan pulls off him fast and disappears into the bathroom, which is fine by Mat, so he just lies there, thinking, too lazy to put clothing on.

The thing about Dylan Strome is: he’s always _there._

Mat knows him too fucking well at this point, and it’s really not for lack of lack of effort. He’s never wanted to be Dylan’s friend, because Dylan Strome is the exact opposite of what Mat likes in a person. He’s too tall, and lanky, and dramatic about shit that doesn’t matter, but frustratingly blasé about shit that does. Mat has this irrational urge to punch him in the face every time he speaks, and it’s not like Mat thinks it’s justified— Dylan’s never done anything wrong besides being, like, kind of annoying, and Mat really doesn’t like being such an asshole about shit like that, but there’s something about Dylan Strome that brings it out in him.

And he won’t go away. Ever.

Dylan clings to people, but it’s not because he’s trying to be clingy—he just does, without even thinking about it, attaches himself to everyone in Mat’s life—and even though there should usually be a whole country between Dylan and Mat, every time Mat looks over his shoulder, Dylan Strome is there, this inescapable, tired-looking stringbean of a person who is pathologically incapable of shutting up.

Truly and honestly, Mat has no idea why Dylan’s in BC, or why Mat’s actively choosing to spend his fucking birthday weekend with Dylan Strome’s mouth on his dick, except for the fact that he doesn’t really have better options for a belated birthday blowjob, and the one upside of Dylan Strome is that his mouth is good at things besides talking Mat’s ear off.

It might have something to do with the fact that Tito is in Barcelona with fucking Luc, and Mat has a lot of opinions on that, but he’s decided that that’s neither here nor there. Even if Tito was on this continent, he’d be in Montreal, and Dylan Strome is at least in this province, even if Mat had to drive an hour in the usual traffic between Coq and fucking Vancouver—

Not that Mat drove an hour into Vancouver _just_ for a blowjob from Dylan Strome. It’s also a fun city, and he was nominally going to, like, hang out in a non-blowjob capacity with Dylan, because Dylan’s here with family and has a few hours to kill by himself, and that’s what you do when friends or acquaintances or Stromes are in town.

Then again, driving an hour to hang out with Dylan Strome and not get laid would probably have been sadder, so.

“I’m hungry,” Dylan announces as he emerges from the bathroom, breaking the longest silence there’s been since Mat first got here.

“Didn’t you just, like, brush your teeth?” Mat says.

“Yeah, and now that my mouth doesn’t taste like jizz, I wanna eat.”

“Then order room service.”

“You’re grumpy for someone who just had an orgasm,” Dylan informs him.

Mat flips Dylan off, and hopes that’s the end of that.

……  

Unfortunately, it’s not.

Mat’s not sure when taking Dylan Strome out to dinner became his job, and he’s not sure what cosmic force decided he was the best person suited to this task, and, while we’re here, he’s not sure where the fuck Dylan’s family is, because he’s pretty sure there are more Stromes in Vancouver right now, but he’s only seen the one.

But Mat would rather die than voice anything remotely resembling an active interest in Dylan’s life, so he doesn’t bring it up.

“So,” Dylan says, before their food has even arrived, “what’s up with Beauvi and Luc?”

Mat doesn’t punch him, or stab the table, or whatever, which honestly, should probably earn him sainthood.

“They’re in Barcelona,” Mat says, and his teeth aren’t even gritted or anything. This means he’s either a much more patient person than he used to be, or just numb to this kind of thing.

“And you didn’t get an invite?”

“I’m happy to be home,” Mat says, which is mostly the truth. Tito had actually invited him, but Mat’s pretty sure it had mostly been out of pity, considering Tito had spent the whole tournament fucking off to hang all over his Q boys.

Mat’s not bitter. He just hadn’t wanted to tag along and watch his friend flirt with everyone under the Spanish sun.

Mostly, he doesn’t regret it.

Dylan takes a bite of bread, nodding. “Makes sense,” he says, covering his mouth with his hand before swallowing. “Hey, do you believe in curses?”

Mat blinks. “What do curses have anything to do with it?”

“They don’t,” Dylan says. “I’m just asking.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to know.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Mat says. “Do you believe in curses?”

Dylan shrugs. “I’m trying to decide.”

Mat squints at him. “You think you’re cursed, don’t you.”

“Maybe.”

“Stromer.”

“Listen, I lose the Memmer to the fucking host team one year, then don’t make the NHL _again,_ then get knocked out of the minor league playoffs by a team that is objectively worse than my team, and then, when I try to go cheer my brother on at the Memmer, it’s the night he loses?”

Mat truly cannot stand to listen to this, so he reaches across the table and smacks Dylan on the side of the head.

“That’s not a curse, dumbass,” he says, sitting back in his chair as Dylan rubs at the spot where Mat had hit. “That’s just four things that happened.”

“Four things that would happen to someone who was cursed to never win,” Dylan points out.

Mat doesn’t believe in curses, but he also doesn’t _not_ believe in curses. He very much wishes he didn’t believe in them at all right now, though, if only so he could tell Dylan that everything he’s just said is total nonsense.

Which, it is, but. Not because of the curse part.

“If you were cursed, you wouldn’t have even made the playoffs,” Mat says. “And if your cursed team made it to the Mem Cup final and knocked out the team that knocked my team out, what does that make me?”

“Triple cursed?” Dylan suggests.

Mat fixes him with a look. “I’m a Calder Nominee, Stromer.”

“But it’s really your modesty that shines.”

“I’m just trying to say that I had a good year, or, at the very least, not a cursed one,” Mat says. “Also, don’t be a moron, even if you _were_ cursed, it wouldn’t extend to your brother. That’s just fucking stupid.”

“It wouldn’t?” Dylan says, perking up a little, almost hopeful, and it hits Mat—

“Wait,” Mat says, “Are you avoiding your family because you’re convinced you cursed your younger brother’s Mem Cup run?”

“Did you let me give you a blowjob because Beau went to Ibiza without you?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Well,” Dylan hedges. “It’s not like he’s exactly happy with me, either.”

Mat puts a hand on his forehead, shaking his head in disbelief. “He doesn’t blame you, he’s _sulking,_ you absolute nitwit.”

“Did you just call me—”

“Okay, yes, I’m running out of words for ‘moron’, but my point still stands,” Mat says. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“You think so?”

“Yes,” Mat says, rubbing his temples to alleviate the Strome-induced tension headache. “Jesus christ, what do you do when you get like this during the season?”

“Merks,” Dylan says automatically. “But he’s busy with rehab, and I was in the area.”

“So that’s why you hit me up,” Mat says.

Dylan does this one-shouldered shrug. “I also kind of wanted to get some.”

“A cry for help disguised as a booty call,” Mat says. “You know, I kind of hate how alike we are sometimes.”

“Are you only just now starting to figure that out?”

Mat’s momentarily taken aback by a totally uncalled for wave of fondness that pierces the overwhelming irritation he feels every time he’s in the same room as Dylan, but he just rolls his eyes and waits for the feeling to pass.

 

 

**II**

If Mat thought driving an hour for a Dylan Strome booty call was sad, then flying to Arizona should, in theory, be the lowest of the low.

In practice, it’s not really that bad at all.

Arizona is a good place to train, and even though it’s hotter than any place has any right to be, it’s a nice change of scenery from BC. Dylan’s place is nice enough, and there’s a pool there, which means Mat spends most afternoons lying on a towel-covered wooden chair, feet up and sunglasses on, scrolling mindlessly on his phone and trying not to obsess over Tito’s Instagram likes and snap stories.

“Your team social media’s stalking your boyfriend,” Dylan says, not bothering to look up from his phone.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Mat says, automatic. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if he was.”

“Semantics,” Dylan says. “Have you looked at it?”

“What, the Insta story?”

“Yeah.”

“Yep,” Mat says. Multiple times, if he’s being honest, and he’s also taken many screenshots, but Dylan could probably guess that part on his own.

“They also put out a video of you two,” Dylan says. “Did you watch that?”

“A video?”

“Of you guys interviewing each other, or something,” Dylan says.

“Oh yeah,” Mat says. He vaguely remembers filming it, somewhere between missing the playoffs and humiliating himself on NHL Network then fucking off to BC.

“I’m gonna watch it,” Dylan says.

“You do that.”

A few minutes later, Dylan says, “Hey, Barz?”

“Yeah?” Mat says.

“Beau’s in love with you.”

Mat is not in the mood to deal with that, so he stands up. “Alright, let’s go inside.”

“Why?”

Mat raises an eyebrow.

“In the middle of the afternoon?” Dylan says, but he climbs out of the pool chair and starts to gather his stuff. “You know I know what you’re trying to avoid, right?”

“Yeah, which is why you’re so good at helping me avoid it,” Mat says. He likes this whole Dylan Strome thing. it’s probably the most honest he’s been with another person since Tito became a problem; it’s also maybe the most honest he’s ever been with himself.

“I’m not in the mood to suck dick,” Dylan says. “Just saying.”

“That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“Then what?”

Mat hums. “Are you skating tomorrow?”

“What does that—” he cuts himself off, his eyes going wide. “Oh.”

“You wanna?”

“I…” Dylan swallows. “Didn’t know you’d give in and fuck me that easily.”

“Really?” Mat says.

“I’ve seen you play hard-to-get, before,” Dylan says, and they start walking back toward Dylan’s condo.

“Maybe, but not with you,” Mat says. “I’ve always been pretty easy with you.”

“That’s true,” Dylan says. “Guess that’s why we work.”

“We work?” Mat says, suddenly very vaguely horrified that he and Dylan have something that makes them a ‘we’.

“As buddies, idiot,” Dylan says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t worry, my overcommitment issues are solidly planted somewhere else.”

“Yeah?” Mat says, mildly curious. “And where’s that?”

“Can we go back to the part where you’re gonna fuck me?” Dylan says, walking even faster, which is unfair, because he’s got stupidly long legs, probably to go along with his stupidly long everything else, and Mat’s already going faster than he’d like just to keep up.

“Eventually,” Mat says, giving in and jogging a few steps to catch up. “But you want to tell me who it is, don’t you?”

“Since when do you care?”

“Since I realized how fun it is to bother you,” Mat says. “I get why you do it all the time, now.”

“You’re literally turning into me, doesn’t that make you at least a little bit nauseous?”

“We passed that the first time your mouth was on my dick,” Mat says. “You didn’t need to bring it up.”

“Freudian slip,” Dylan says.

“Right, because, on an unconscious level, you want me to know,” Mat says.

“Subconscious.”

“Whatever, all I know about Freud is that he wrote about dicks a lot,” Mat says. “This isn’t about dicks, it’s about your heart.”

“No, it’s about my dick,” Dylan says. “I don’t have a heart anymore, actually.”

“Because someone stole it,” Mat shoots back.

Dylan stops in his tracks. “Did we switch places?”

“What?”

“You’re becoming like me, does that mean I’m becoming more like you?” Dylan says.

“Do you just… say shit about, like, weird magic scenarios every time you can’t explain a feeling within five minutes of feeling it?” Mat says.

“Don’t you?” Dylan says.

“Stromer,” Mat says. “Tell me what you’re trying to avoid, and I’ll help you avoid it.”

Dylan sighs, then looks at his feet. “Merks and I hooked up a few times, it’s not a big deal.”

Mat’s known Dylan for a long time, and even if he hasn’t always particularly liked him, he’s always understood him, and understood that in his world, everything’s a big deal.

“Merks is a nice guy,” Mat says.

“Merks is injured,” Dylan says. “Because that’s what happens when I care, people get hurt, or lose, or both.”

“Okay,” Mat says. “Listen. I’m sure your brain is just, like, a montage of your friends and exes getting injured, or whatever, but I’m just gonna remind you that we play hockey and everyone is always hurt, and also, that you’re _not fucking cursed.”_

“Did you know that you can find spells online?” Dylan says.

“Whoever gave you internet access made a bad call,” Mat says. “No spells.”

“Not even a little one?”

“No,” Mat says, firm, and that’s the end of that.

……

Here’s the thing about Dylan:

He’s kind of… the opposite of Tito.

He’s tall, and aggressively Toronto, and brings down the energy in every room he’s in, and can’t crack an NHL roster even when everyone expects him to, and never shuts up about how much everything in his life sucks.

“God, this is good,” Dylan says, as incapable of shutting up as ever, even though Mat’s literally inside him. “It’s been so long.”

“Same here,” Mat says, something between a gasp and a grunt.

“Really?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Mat says, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he slowly starts to move out of Dylan, opening them so he can see himself, and Dylan, and the way he can make out the bones of Dylan’s spine, the way Dylan’s shoulders aren’t as wide as Tito’s, the way he’s different on every possible axis, except for maybe the way their hair curls when it’s wet in the same way.

Mat’s train of thought is interrupted when Dylan says, “Davo told me you and—”

“Connor McDavid can mind his own business,” Mat says, cutting him off. He thrusts back into Dylan, not too rough, but firm enough to punctuate that sentence, which is probably what Dylan was going for.

“Fuck, yeah,” Dylan says. “Please don’t full name my best friend while you’re, like, actively making my dick harder.”

“You’re the one who brought him up.”

“Yeah, but I kept it to two syllables,” Dylan says. “How would you like it if I mentioned—”

“Fine, no more full names,” Mat says, mentally counting to three as he pulls out most of the way. He’s sort of trying to make this last, but it’s not like they hand out awards for stamina, so he’s not putting that much effort into it.

“Good,” Dylan says. “So, what, the rumors aren’t true?”

“Never said I didn’t get fucked,” Mat says.

“Oh, okay,” Dylan says. “That makes sense.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re terrible at dirty talk?”

Dylan lets out a breathy laugh. “I just mean that you want a change, and this is one of them.”

“Can you stop analyzing me?”

“Never.”

“God, you’re so—”

“I’m shit at asking guys to top,” Dylan says. “And they usually don’t offer.”

“It’s because you’re tall,” Mat says.

“Sometimes,” Dylan says. “But, whatever, just— fuck, I like this so _much_.”

It sends a shiver down Mat’s spine, hearing him say it like that. It’s not that Mat particularly likes the sound of Dylan’s voice, but it’s still such a Dylan thing to say, and Mat—

He likes _Dylan._

Not in a romantic way, and not even necessarily the sex stuff, either. He just— likes him. As a person. Mat’s got all these fucking hangups about people, and so does Dylan, because neither of them knows how to handle any sort of emotion, especially when there’s no hockey to play. Mat pulls Dylan’s head out of his ass when he’s too caught up in his own weird conspiracy theory-type thinking about how the world is out to get him, and Dylan— he gives Mat a sense of purpose, something to do, something to complain about or someone else’s problems to fix.

Dylan is smart, and he reads people really fucking well. He’s giving Mat exactly what he needs, and getting exactly what he needs in return, and the whole arrangement is bizarrely genius, and possibly maybe the last thing that should be turning Mat on, considering the circumstances, but—

“I’m gonna come,” Mat says.

“Do your thing, dude.”

It feels fucking great, because it’s an orgasm, and there’s a moment where Mat’s mind is blank, all sensation and no emotion, which is honestly his preferred state of being, but when he comes back into himself, Dylan’s still underneath him, squirming, hard, Mat’s dick going soft inside him.

He pulls out slowly. “Turn over,” he says, nudging at Dylan’s hip.

“Why?”

“I wanna suck your dick,” Mat says.

That gets Dylan on his back very quickly.

So, that happens, and, like— the thing about blowjobs is, Mat’s very, very good at them, and they both know it, but besides wanting Dylan to get off to keep things fair, Mat—because he’s a normal person, and not Dylan Strome—cannot say things while sucking dick, so having a cock in his mouth shuts him up, even when there’s a thought relentless nagging at the back of his mind. It’s from the same part of the brain that probably tells people to eat Tide Pods, and compared to that, the urge to say something is pretty harmless, but still, it’s a thought that won’t leave him.

And maybe a blowjob, in normal circumstances, would clear his head, but then Dylan’s panting, and Mat’s got a mouthful of Dylan’s come, and after he swallows it—

“Holy shit, I think I love you, man.”

Before Mat has time to gauge a response from Dylan, another bit of come leaks out of the head of his dick, and Mat’s mouth is on him once again, purely out of habit.

“Uh,” Dylan says, and Mat sits up, wiping his mouth with his forearm as he shakes his head.

“No, I mean— not like that,” Mat says. “I meant— platonically?”

“What?” Dylan says.

“Like,” Mat feels his eyes go wide. “I think you’re… my best friend?”

“Me,” Dylan says, pointing to himself, kind of disbelieving, which is, like, probably fair.

“Yeah,” Mat says slowly. “I… appreciate? You?”

Dylan blinks at him. “What the fuck?”

“I know,” Mat says, and he’s still processing this very strange and unexpected shift in his worldview. “I— I’m so sorry, I don’t know when this happened.”

“Well—” Dylan bobs his head from side to side, considering. “I mean, it’s not… _exactly_ a surprise, if you think about it.”

“You knew?” Mat says, probably a little more betrayed than the situation warrants.

“I didn’t not know,” Dylan says, almost apologetic. “Think about it. You kept hanging out with me.”

“Because it was _polite_ ,” Mat says. “And, like, sex—” he pauses, truly horrified at the thought that strikes him. “Holy shit, I don’t want to keep hooking up with you.”

“That’s fine,” Dylan says quickly. “We don’t have to.”

“I know,” Mat snaps. “Because we’re _friends.”_

“We’ve known each other for years, it was bound to happen eventually,” Dylan says, as Mat throws his legs over the side of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and putting his head in his hands as he tries to think about how he possibly could have missed the moment where reluctant tolerance and a vague sense of disdain turned into genuine respect for this lanky raincloud of a person.

“I—” Mat starts, but he just keeps shaking his head, because he can’t think of anything else to say. He’s friends with Dylan Strome, and it’s just— a thing. That’s happening. Like, this is his life now: he plays hockey, he spends too much time on Instagram, and he’s friends with Dylan Strome.

“You’ll be okay,” Dylan says, throwing an arm over Mat’s shoulder.

“No, I won’t,” Mat says. “Connor McDavid’s gonna give me a shovel talk, isn’t he.”

“Listen, I know you’re going through something right now, but— like, the full name thing—”

“The sex is over,” Mat protests.

“We’re still naked,” Dylan says. “Like, just, no first-and-last naming him in the vicinity of sex.”

“It doesn’t even matter, because I’m never having sex with you again,” Mat groans, letting his head fall on Dylan’s chest. “It was good sex, too.”

“Well, we could, still,” Dylan offers.

Mat shakes his head. “I don’t think we’re that kind of… best… friends.” The words feel weird in his mouth, and Dylan pats his arm reassuringly.

“You’ll adjust,” Dylan says.

“I guess so,” Mat says, and then he sighs. “You— you’re overthinking things with Merks, which, no shit, but— he’s an easygoing guy. If you act like a boyfriend, he’ll meet you halfway, if he’s interested, which, like, he probably is.” Mat shrugs. “There’s a 70% chance he defines the relationship before you do, just— don’t play it cool around him, he’ll shut down, and you know that, but you’ve probably been trying to play it cool anyway.”

“Right,” Dylan says. “Thanks.”

“What are friends for,” Mat says, giving Dylan a grim smile.

“Well, in that case,” Dylan says, “Beau’s jealous as shit, and he’s grossly happy all the time—which, y’know, probably a good thing to be around—but when happy people feel shitty jealous feelings, they tend to shut down, or, like, get resentful. But, look, you don’t see the way he looks at you when you laugh—”

“You can’t base shit off a look,” Mat says.

“A look and a few things I might’ve heard through the grapevine,” Dylan says.

Mat rolls his eyes. “Co— Davo really needs to get his own shit together, and not just report everyone else’s crap to you.”

“I like having a source,” Dylan says. “Anyway, looks are more reliable than rumors, but you’ve got both on your side.”

“Alright,” Mat says. “Wow, I really like him.”

“I know,” Dylan says.

“I really like _you,”_ Mat says. “Different kind of like, but still—” He cuts himself off.

“It’s okay, my feelings won’t be hurt,” Dylan says.

Mat shakes his head. “This is so _weird_.”

“Good-weird?” Dylan says, sounding kind of hopeful, and Mat lifts his head, looks at Dylan, and nods, then reaches for his phone.

“Okay-weird,” Mat says, moving so that his head is on the pillow, ankles crossed. “Decent-weird.”

“Are you on Instagram?” Dylan says.

“Yep,” Mat says, not looking up.

“We just had sex,” Dylan says. “Like, a few minutes ago.”

“I know, I was there,” Mat says.

“Are you at least gonna put clothes on?”

Mat just shakes his head, and he almost looks up when Dylan scoffs, but he’s too committed to the bit.

“Alright, well, you’re a dick, so, friendship cancelled.”

“We had a good run,” Mat says, grinning, and he does look up this time, just to check that Dylan’s not, like, actually upset, but he sees the corners of Dylan’s mouth tug reluctantly upwards.

“So, you hate me again, eh?”  

“Oh yeah,” Mat says. “Hundo p. Total disdain.”

“Lit,” Dylan says, pushing at Mat’s foot. “I’m gonna find my clothes.”

“Toss me mine if you see ‘em?”

“Nope,” Dylan says, as he throws Mat’s boxers at his feet, which, honestly, is such good timing that it’s probably solid evidence against any possibility of Dylan being cursed.

“Thanks, bud,” Mat says, pulling them on as Dylan flops down on the bed next to him, taking up, as always, an obnoxious amount of space.

“No problem, pal.”

They share a grin, this friendly kind of thing, full of easy camaraderie, and Mat doesn’t even hate how much he enjoys it.

**Author's Note:**

> alt. summary:  
> 
> 
> title source: [because no one told mat life was gonna be this way](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2vuaqDDr--Q)
> 
> oh also [here](https://www.nhl.com/islanders/video/c-60494103) is the video of barzy and beau that ruined my life. there was also a livestream yesterday where i could've SWORN mat and tito kept saying "stromey"/"stromer" and also that mat is apparently in arizona? and dylan's not, but still.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] like we're stuck in second gear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17129369) by [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery)




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